


Rank and File

by primeideal



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18513643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Lando wears as many layers as ever. Some of his old uniforms and capes no longer fit, but the same bright colors are always in fashion, stark blues and resplendent yellows. There is always more than enough to cover up the text on his wrist.





	Rank and File

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



Lando’s worn a lot of capes in his life—smuggler, gambler, Baron Administrator, droid ally, whiz pilot, undercover guard, fashion connoisseur—without caring much what title goes with the responsibility. He’s done well for himself, inside or outside the Empire’s jurisdiction. Alliance officer should be just one more on the list.

Should be.

When Mon Mothma praises his flight patterns asks him to lead the attack, he agrees instantly. He’s seen what the Empire can do; despite the regime’s empty promises, no one is safe until they’re overthrown. He can’t sit back and watch another Death Star, another Alderaan. It’s the right thing to do, for a lifelong captain or a recruit who got roped in a few months ago.

But then she goes and tells that this qualifies him for the rank of a general, and he can barely take it in. A general, _there_?

If you’d asked him, he would have said that the middle of a civil war was no place for finding one’s soulmate. Until he saw how Han and Organa looked at each other. He wasn’t sure who was more surprised that they’d heard their Forcemark words in the hallways of the Death Star: Organa, that she’d found a love match with a Corellian commoner, or Han, that the marking he’d dismissed as superstition in so many others had been meaningful for him.

Certainly Lando had never expected to be evidence in favor of the existence of soulmates. _General Calrissian_? Him, a respectable member of an organized military? When Wookiees flew, he and Han agreed.

Until he finds himself in the War Room, looking over the gathered rebels. Is his soulmate going to be an idealistic young do-gooder like Organa? He’s already made the acquaintances of many of the leaders—Mothma and Madine—so it can’t be them. Unfortunately for him, he can also rule out Wedge Antilles, who he’s argued about X-Wing engines with. Too bad. Antilles is a good deal more attractive than most of the Rebel fleet.

When Mothma introduces Lando to Nien Nunb, he braces himself. Not all species have Forcemarks, and Lando doesn’t know about Sullustans’ anatomy, just that they’re really not his type.

But Nien only says “Nice ship you’ve got there,” and Lando exhales.

“She’s not mine. I mean, she was. I—it’s complicated. Let me show you the controls.”

He talks to a lot of people, barking orders over the radio, but there’s no time for idle chitchat. Only war, and the fear of not knowing what’s going on below.

And then it seems they’ve won, not just the day, but possibly the war. Luke claims that the Emperor is dead, consumed in his own shafts of light, and if Lando harbors some fear that it can’t have been that easy—well, he’s seen Luke practicing with the Force, seen Leia navigate her way back into the city. He’ll take the chance to celebrate, if nothing else.

The war will end, and he’ll go back to the many lives he knows, and he finds he doesn’t mind that. What could the love of a soulmate be like, next to the love of freedom?

* * *

Poe has a few days left of leave before he has to decide whether he’s going back to the Republic fleet or resigning his commission. Is it really a decision, he wonders? Or has his choice already been made, spun out before time itself by some mystical Force powers?

He likes to think he has free will, but who is _he_? He’s always wanted to be a pilot, but what if Shara Bey hadn’t flown for the Rebellion? Would it even make sense to speak of Poe, or would even a single might-have-been deflect the course of the galaxy?

Kes raises his eyebrows to see Poe arrive at the farm on Yavin, then laughs. “Would’ve thought a youngster like yourself would have found more interesting places to visit on vacation.”

“I’m banned from all the interesting places,” Poe says with a straight face.

“Well, you could have commed ahead, I’d make _brintti_.”

“I have two days to talk you into it. More, really, my biological clock is still on Traeva time.”

Kes needs little convincing, and as the _brintti_ bakes the following night, they sit on the porch and catch up. Poe finds himself attentive to even the petty things—the planetary governor’s neuroses, the migrating birds—putting his own anxiety in perspective.

“I just want to be sure I’m doing this for the right reasons,” Poe summarizes, once he’s recounted his junction.

Kes pauses, glancing down at a sober-looking BB-8. “I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you that will assure you one way or the other. If you felt absolutely committed, without stopping to question anything, you might be as much an ideologue as a loyalist.”

“Great.”

“If I may ask, what are the _wrong_ reasons?”

Poe fidgets. “The Resistance is understaffed, from all I hear, and I’m more experienced with the newer craft than a lot of the old-timers. If this drags on, I could rise through the ranks pretty quickly, faster than I could in the Republic.”

“And you’re concerned about your rank? That’s not like you.”

“I’m concerned that—that part of me just _wants_ to be a Commander. Because of my Forcemark.”

Kes gives a faint smile. “What do you want me to tell you? Finding your soulmate doesn’t prevent tragedy?”

“I don’t know. The usual superstitions, _trying_ to find them means that they’ll never come, whatever.”

“Your mother joined the Alliance in part because some of her Bothan contacts were having her patch up their Y-Wings anyway, and she figured she might as well learn to fly one, she’d get a chance there sooner than with the Empire.”

“I know,” Poe laughs. “I’ve heard that one once or twice.”

“We weren’t saints. We were humans—well, and Wookiees and Mon Calamari and droids and all. Wherever you go, you’ll find people, all the same.”

“Not the First Order,” Poe mutters.

“Have _they_ made you an offer?”

“What? No! And I’d blast ‘em if they did.”

Kes shrugs. “Sounds like you’re near a decision, then,” he says, and rises to check on the _brintti_.

* * *

The mission to Kafrene is an almost total success. Black Squadron recons info on the newest model of the solar panels that fit old TIE Fighters, they talk Senator Ngwali into denouncing the First Order in public, and when they’re ambushed by ruthless mercenaries on their way out, Paige Tico is able to jam the pirate comms long enough for everyone to escape.

Everyone except Urlis, whose oxygen sustainer had failed, and he couldn’t repair it himself. He’d suffocated in the void, and his useless astromech had been blown up by the pirates on their way out.

“It’s okay to be affected,” Organa tells him. “I’d be more concerned about you if you weren’t.”

Poe says nothing. His mind is on Urlis, on all his stupid idiosyncrasies, his need to only cook with bland Coruscanti foodstuffs. Of course Poe had never criticized him; he was the pilot’s superior officer, it would look petty. Should he have lied, pretended he had no beef with him? Would it have given him any more happiness in his short life?

“You’ve taken risks before,” she goes on, “some of them—in my personal opinion—a bit rash. You know we can’t afford to stay back out of fear. We haven’t been given that luxury.”

“I know,” Poe says dully. “I just wish people would stop celebrating, that’s all.”

“Oh? Have you ordered BB-8 to go back and return the TIE panels where you found them?”

It’s moments like those he sometimes forgets he’s dealing with General Organa, the last monarch of Alderaan, and sees how his mother could have befriended the young rebel so quickly. “Is there anything else you wanted to say?”

“Yes, but it’s not urgent.”

“I’d rather you get it over with,” he says. The last thing he needs is an ominous message from the General hanging over him.

She raises one eyebrow. “While I acknowledge your grief, I wanted to commend you on your decision to avoid combat. Rasher leaders might have rushed in.”

“It wasn’t our fight.”

“Very true. Our struggle continues, and it will get worse before it gets better. With that being said, I would hope you would accept a promotion to the rank of commander.”

Poe blinks. “You mean, like, now?”

“Yes, now, unless you’d prefer to wait until the First Order is defeated.”

“It’s an honor, ma’am. Of course.”

It’s not until he’s lying awake, ruminating on what he could have done differently, that he realizes the significance— _Commander Dameron._ Did Organa know? She’d met him as a child, but she was too classy to stare at a child’s Forcemarks, only creeps did that. Maybe she just didn’t want it to go to his head.

It doesn’t help him fall asleep any faster.

* * *

Lando can’t bring himself to think of the First Order as a serious threat. He knew Ben Solo when he was a toddler throwing tantrums in a cot in the _Falcon_ , and now he’s supposed to fear the so-called “Kylo Ren” lashing out with the Force?

But too many reliable sources have told him that travel is slowing down. Droids are being stopped and threatened in hyperspace depots, non-humans have their spaceships called in for examination, while the decrepit Empire survivors fly freely even when they’re too old to steer.

So when a Resistance operative comms in, he makes time to answer. The man’s ID passes authentication, and the codes must have come via Organa. “Commander Dameron?” Lando says briskly.

He seems startled—lag on the comm? “General Calrissian?”

Lando hasn’t been addressed as a military leader since—no, surely not. The pilot is too young for him, too busy caught up in another conflict. The Republic is straining under pressure from all sides, and violence will encompass them again someday. That’s where he’ll meet his soulmate, if he has the luxury of one—on the front lines, or sidelines, or wherever he is when he has nowhere to run. Not here, in the distant comms.

“Are you still there?” Dameron asks.

“Yes, sorry,” Lando says. “Can I be of assistance?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out. You’re part owner in Harmony Shipyards?”

“Yes.” It had been a spur-of-the-moment investment. The Mon Calamari who’d inherited majority ownership wasn’t interested in preserving the family business, but many of their old transports were more durable than modern companies’ models. It had seemed a shame to let it fall by the wayside.

“We’ve heard that Pym Jorro wants to sell her share to the Lusit Corporation. Can you confirm?”

“Not specifically, but Jorro has no antenna for business. She’s been wanting to get out of the trade for years now, so it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“That’s disappointing,” says Dameron. “We have it on good authority that the Lusit Corporation is a front for some of Snoke’s assets. I’m sure General Organa would appreciate it if you could do everything in your power to hold up the deal.”

“Snoke?”

“Self-proclaimed Supreme Leader of the First Order. Up to no good. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” says Lando. “Do you need me to buy Jorro out first? I’m sure I could rustle something up at the casinos, if it comes to that.”

Dameron laughs, a warm, infectious laugh, and Lando allows himself a smile in return. “I suspect your influence might be better put towards incentivizing more spacious cargo chambers.”

“What?”

“Several of the Outer Rim hubs have been less welcoming to non-humans. If there were more compartments for them to hide in, avoid detection, it might prevent—overreach.”

“And you think I’m an expert in undetectable cargo chambers? What exactly do you take me for?”

Dameron looks crestfallen. “Of course, my apologies, that was inappropriate—”

“Lighten up, it’s a joke. Half the galaxy’s heard of my smuggling exploits and the other half are just waiting for their chance.”

“Aha. Well, I’m sure it’d be much appreciated.”

“By who?”

“My—ah—colleagues,” Dameron musters. More of a pilot than a bluffer, then.

“Really?” says Lando. “And here I was thinking you were a lone operator.”

“It doesn’t take much recon to know you’re a busy man. Better to not get in too deep—the transit market might never recover.”

“I’m grateful for your concern,” Lando says dryly, and Dameron almost blushes. “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

It isn’t hard to dig up a few cursory red flags on the Lusit Corporation. Disregard of bioethics treaties in the Outer Rim, speculative investments in fathier racing on Cantonica. When Lando anonymously voices his concerns, the trade talk slows down, and Lusit even tries to signal a more pleasant image by splashing thousands of credits on modern holo-projectors for young Ewok students. It gives Lando a small pleasure to think he’s responsible for making Supreme Leader Whoever compare philantrophic options. But eventually even the First Order decides there are more efficient ways to construct a reign of terror, and they leave Jorro alone.

Lando wears as many layers as ever. Some of his old uniforms and capes no longer fit, but the same bright colors are always in fashion, stark blues and resplendent yellows. There is always more than enough to cover up the text on his wrist. Dameron does not call again.

But when he sees Han Solo drop by, offering a position transporting rathtars, Lando checks himself before trying to persuade him to buy Jorro’s share. He has a better offer in mind. “You know where the Resistance base is.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Because I need you to take me.”

“This had better be good.”

Sometimes the truth is outlandish enough to pass as a lie. “Your soulmate is there, and I’m pretty sure mine is too.”

Solo laughs. “The Force may be real, but that doesn’t mean love is eternal or whatever the mystics say.”

“ _Are you that convinced your soulmate is a human?_ ” Chewbacca asks in Shyriiwook. “ _Provincial of you_.”

“I have my reasons,” says Lando. “Do you think we’re gonna win a lasting peace by doing the same things we did last time, you kids smuggling and Leia trying to do everything on her own? If we have more battles to fight, I might as well have someone to enjoy them with.”

He’s not sure if he believes all of it himself. Yes, Han needs to be broken out of his old routine, but could Dameron really be the one for him? He’s made no effort to communicate; surely he has someone younger and more dazzling, or maybe he just doesn’t believe in fate.

“ _I will take you_ ,” Chewie says, “ _with or without Han_.”

“I heard that,” Han says. Chewie merely tilts his head, inquisitive. “Okay, okay, I’m coming. But if you want a miracle, save it for the guys with the lightsabers.”

* * *

It’s hard to get a private moment aboard the transit ship, but when Han is in the head, Lando and Chewie quickly agree that a reunion with Leia will be good for him—not because of anything inscribed on their arms, but because of what they become together.

Han delights in ribbing Lando about his potential soulmate, and Lando quickly realizes he shouldn’t share too much in case Han decides to turn the tables on him. “He called me General, that was when I wondered. Contacted me about some shipwright nonsense.”

“He, eh? Not one of the Alliance old-timers?”

“Ackbar still hanging around?” Lando diverts the subject.

D’Qar is beautiful, the sort of planet where native species routinely drop down from trees or up from burrows and startle Resistance operatives who have yet to make it a permanent home. Bases in war are transient, as people come and go on missions and covers are blown and remade.

Lando’s brief inquiries tell him that Dameron is off-planet with his squadron—a pilot, it sounds like, and a bit of a hotshot. But he can’t avoid Leia all day.

“I want to help,” he says. “Both as a friend, and as a general who’s been down this road before. Han entrusted me with a lot in coming here, I won’t just leave on a whim.”

C-3PO is as verbose as ever. “Your loyalties are impeccable.”

“I—would like to stay at least long enough to confirm whether or not my soulmate is here. I think I’m probably wrong, but it’d be nice to have closure.”

Leia smiles. “It is good to see you again. Even under the circumstances.”

Which is as close to a “yes” as he supposes he’s going to get. Generalese.

* * *

Updating the Resistance’s maps and intelligence databases proves to be surprisingly fulfilling. It’s not much, but Lando has data on new ship models and financial transactions in the Core that many of the more far-flung spies appreciate. He throws himself into the work, running holoprojections and putting up with Threepio’s unnecessary commentary. And while it’s not clear exactly what Han is up to, Lando notes with satisfaction that Han is still on the base.

It takes a couple weeks for Dameron to walk in.

“General,” he says. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you,” Lando says carefully. “Uh, Commander, was it?”

“Commander.” He nods. “Poe Dameron.”

“I...Everything with Jorro worked out fine. Lusit gave up.”

“I heard. Thank you.”

Lando shrugs. “Just business.”

“So what brings you here?”

“Curiosity.” Dameron makes no reply. “About what kind of operation Organa’s running. What sorts of flyboys she’s looking out for this time around.”

Dameron blinks, then walks over, looks at the projection Lando has on display. “Can I see this?”

“Sure—youch!” Before Lando can reply, he’s seized the emitter, holding it at a weird angle so that the distorted map reflects off a door. “Careful.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” says Dameron, who turns it over idly in his hand. The spiral arms of the galaxy go spinning around the near wall.

Maybe he doesn’t care about stellar geography, and maybe he doesn’t want Lando to either. Lando steps closer, glances at Dameron’s arm, his rolled-up sleeves baring his Forcemark to the cosmos. _Commander Dameron._

“Must be hard,” he says, “you get introduced to lots of people out there, do you even remember who all salutes you?”

“I remember enough,” says Dameron, and his eyes are bright with impatience. This is the impulsive pilot he’s heard about, concealing his hope and fear every bit as much as Lando.

What the hey. “It’s easier for me,” Lando says. “Nobody’s called me _General Calrissian_ in a long time.”

Poe’s lips form a circle, and he drops the emitter as he reaches out, his fingers grazing Lando’s wrist.

Nothing happens. There’s no spark of recognition or new lines forming. For all that some holo-vids hype it up, there never really is.

“You too, huh?” Poe says.

“Afraid so.”

“ _Afraid_? You’re a legend, you—I couldn’t believe—” Maybe the man’s a grown leader, but he still blushes like a little kid. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

“You know what Leia says. You need plenty of hope to endure in the galaxy.”

“I don’t think she’s ever said that, actually.”

“Hmm,” says Lando, taking Poe’s other hand in his. “Well, if it’s all right with you, I intend to stay around this base for quite a while. Maybe I’ll overhear some more.”

“I believe you outrank me, _General_ ,” says Poe. “But speaking only for myself, I would like that very much.”


End file.
